by Sax Rohmer
15
Messieurs, Faites Vos Jeux!
A large Chinese vase rested on a lacquer stool. It contained a quantity of arum lilies and had the effect of dominating the square, thickly carpeted lobby of Destrée’s apartment. Shaded lights were so disposed that this vase and the waxen white petals acquired startling prominence against a background afforded by the rose tints of a Persian prayer mat which hung upon the wall.
In an oval niche a green Buddha crouched contemplating these lilies; a tiny, shaded lamp burned before him. There was a note of baroque in all the appointments. A Burmese gong poised in a wooden support gleamed mysteriously from a shadowed corner, and near it, on a ledge, stood a violet lacquered telephone. Facing the entrance, so that it occupied much of the space between two doors, was a Madonna by El Greco; a beautiful ivory crucifix hung above the massive frame. But of all these strange, indeed incompatible, elements, it was the lilies which dominated the lobby.
There was no sound, until this perfumed silence was broken by a faint buzzing. A door opened immediately, and a man came out and went to the instrument. It was Mr. Francis, with whom James Wake had had some conversation recently; Mr. Francis of the cat-like walk, the clean shaven, heavy, expressive face, the dimpled chin. To-night he wore “tails” and presented a notable figure, since many men had given up “dressing” altogether. The telephone conversation was brief.
“O.K. Bring him right up.”
Mr. Francis adjusted his white tie before a mirror in a lacquered frame immediately above a dainty bureau. That magnified mosquito note of an ascending elevator proclaimed itself, perceptibly increased and then stopped. The sound of a distant clanging gate, a resumption of the whine, this time diminuendo, and Mr. Francis opened the door, just as a fair young man who wore the uniform of a celebrated infantry regiment was about to press the bell.
“Ah, good evening, Captain Fyne,” said Mr. Francis, his chin dimpling. “I was expecting you. Mr. Olivar told me you were coming along.”
“Wasn’t sure if I’d come to the right spot. Is Teddie here?”
“I am expecting him. My name is Francis.”
Captain Fyne, a distrait young man, accepted the outstretched hand. As they entered the lobby and Mr. Francis closed the door, Captain Fyne sniffed, and looked about him in growing bewilderment.
“Let me take your cap and cane.”
These being surrendered, Mr. Francis flung another door open and ushered the visitor into a small room evidently designed purely for the alleviation of thirst. A man in a white jacket presided over a red bar, and there were several armchairs and small red tables disposed here and there. Actually, only one customer was present; he wore a dark lounge suit, had iron gray hair perfectly groomed, a brief military moustache, and a cordless monocle which presumably was retained in place by means of hypnotic suggestion. A stiffly upright figure, a slow, easy manner and an ironic savoir-faire recalled the older diplomacy. Mr. Francis performed introductions:
“Ah, Mr. Michaelis, this is Captain the Honorable Peter Fyne, a friend of Olivar’s. You may not have met.”
“How do you do,” said Mr. Michaelis, bowing formally. “Please let me offer you a drink. As an old frequenter of these haunts of vice,” — he smiled indulgently— “I believe the honor is mine.”
“Oh, thanks,” said Captain Fyne vaguely. “I could do with a drink.”
The barman being given instructions: “I know your brother, Lord Abthorp, quite well,” said Mr. Michaelis. “Still out East?”
“Yes.” Fyne nodded in his puzzled way; “as a matter of fact, in Cairo at the moment. Hope he doesn’t push on before I arrive.”
“Oh, I see. Enough soda? Good.” Mr. Michaelis handed a tumbler to the new arrival. “You expect to be joining him, then?”
“Yes, rather; sailing next week.”
“Well, well, here’s the best of luck. If, which I trust will not be the case, I should miss seeing you again, please give my warm regards to your brother.”
A tiny red light glowed just above the red bar. Mr. Francis went out, closing the door behind him. He returned in less than a minute accompanied by a slender young man of willowy figure, who carried his clothes with an almost feminine grace. His handsome features were so evenly tanned that, since the Riviera was no longer available to Londoners, one suspected sunray treatment or even some preparation in a bottle. His dark hair presented a series of glittering waves and his dark eyes were really beautiful, or would have been considered so if they had belonged to a girl. He wore a dinner suit, but a companion, who followed him, was attired as a City man (or, alternatively, disguised as a stockbroker).
The striped trousers worn by this second visitor any competent stage producer would have condemned on sight as taken off the wrong hook. He had his depressed hair parted in the center and had cultivated probably the smallest moustache in Europe: it looked like two full stops. He wore black-rimmed spectacles, and in profile his figure suggested that a finely developed torso had slipped down in some way to the neighborhood of the waist line.
“Hello, Teddie,” called Captain Fyne, as the immaculate young man entered; “you have turned up then?”
“Of course I have. I never miss a game when there is one going.”
Teddie’s modulated tones were marred by a slight lisp which, however, some women had found fascinating. Mr. Francis entered behind the pair, and closed the door again.
“As this is your first visit, Mr. Bernstein, let me make you at home. This is Captain the Honorable Peter Fyne, and Mr. Michaelis. Mr. Olivar I guess you know already.”
“Glad to meet you, captain,” said Mr. Bernstein. “How d’you do, Mr. M.” He looked about him appreciatively. “Posh little place, ain’t it! I’ll say so.”
He rubbed his hands together, hands which, in marked contrast to his rather pasty features, were distinctly red. He laughed on three rising notes of appreciation, “Ha! ha! ha!” revealing yellowish teeth, two of which were redeemed by gold coverings. Mr. Michaelis, who had stepped to a side-table to light a cigar, rejoined the group. Mr. Bernstein, in reply to a courteous inquiry, suggested a double whisky and soda, which was promptly forthcoming.
“Ah! that’s the stuff,” he declared, sampling it and smacking his lips. “Goes down very well, that does. Not half!”
He took another drink. “A drop of good stuff, that. What ho!”
Captain Fyne drew Teddie Oliver aside, and: “I say, Teddie,” he began, and looked more bewildered than ever, “where did you find it?”
Teddie Olivar rolled his eyes, shrugged gracefully and accompanied the gesture with a movement of his shapely hands. “Really, Peter, one has to do it nowadays. I agree that the man is somewhat ungarnished, and his suitings are always shocking, but just look at my Tuxedo, for instance. How could I possibly be turned out as I am if there were no Mr. Bernsteins? And my wine cellar, Peter! Positively pre-war. Mr. Bernstein again.”
“Oh, I see. Black market king?”
“Black market emperor, Peter. A really wonderful fellow. Old Huskin would be delighted to meet him, I am sure.”
“So would the police, no doubt. But that reminds me. You said Lady Huskin was coming.”
“My dear Peter, it is an old story — the jealous husband. Of course Poppy Huskin is simply prostrated, but the old man insisted upon her going down to Huskin Court to-night for one of those unendurable political dinners. Poor Poppy! she is so good to me, too.”
Mr. Bernstein had now more or less assumed command of the gathering, however. His ripe and rolling tones possessed great penetrative powers.
“Between ourselves, Mr. Francis — just as one pal to another, like, see what I mean? — What do they rush you for this line of Scotch?”
“Well,” Mr. Francis replied, his chin dimpling, “I could look up the account.”
“I’ll lay you an even fiver — and here’s me money.” Mr. Bernstein produced a pregnant wallet, and from it took out a five pound note. “Cover that, old cock.” He slapped
it down on the counter. “An even fiver I’m layin’ you, that I can do you three cases of the same stuff at a fifteen per cent reduck.”
“Take back your money, Mr. Bernstein.” Mr. Francis smiled, and handed him the note. “I accept your word right now; and I shall be real pleased to have the three cases on the understanding you have mentioned, and at that price.”
“They are yours.” Mr. Bernstein replaced the wad, produced a small notebook and a pencil and made an entry.
“I can see we shall do a little business. Yes, thanks—” in reply to a mute interrogation from the solicitous Mr. Michaelis. “The other half would go down very well. I never say no to a drop o’ good stuff.”
Another door communicating with the bar was thrown open and a subdued murmur of conversation suggesting the presence of a number of people became audible. Above it rose a single voice: “Messieurs, faites vos jeux!”
Sounds of movement followed, ejaculations, muttered instructions, then the whirring of a wheel, the rattle of an ivory ball. As the woman who had opened the door entered the bar and closed the door behind her, one heard the voice of the croupier again: “Rien ne va plus ...”
Destrée smiled around upon her guests.
Mr. Michaelis, who stood nearest to the door, raised her tiny fingers to his lips, with continental chivalry. Teddie Olivar dragged Captain Fyne forward.
“The loveliest and cleverest woman in London,” he lisped. “This is my friend, Peter Fyne, dear. Needless for me to add, Peter, that this is Ysolde Destrée.”
Captain Fyne’s bewilderment became something like hypnosis, as he bowed over the extended hands of his hostess. She wore a frock which appeared to be composed of gold tissue, the back of which its designer had left wholly to the spectator’s imagination to sketch in; so that there was nothing to mar the beauty of her arms and shoulders. A floral ornament composed of rubies, peeped out from the blackness of her gleaming hair, and red sandals with golden heels seemed, so lightly did she tread, to make no impress upon the carpet. As a model of wartime economy Destrée’s frock could not well have been improved upon with propriety, since it terminated not far beneath her gracefully modelled breasts and only resumed its duties where the curve of slender hips began, exposing the powdered satin of her tiny waist. She was dainty as a fairy and alluring as a secret vice; her eyes gave no hint of reward or punishment, but merely beckoned.
Mr. Bernstein rubbed his red hands together, and nudged Mr. Michaelis. “Do the honors, old boy,” he murmured, “what ho! Bit of all right.”
Mr. Michaelis presented Mr. Bernstein, adding, “A friend of Teddie Olivar, and one who is reputed to be a very daring player. So to-night, dear Destrée, you must be on your mettle.”
“I love those who are daring,” she smiled, and the fairy bell voice was in harmony with the fairy figure— “in love and in play.”
“That’s O.K. by me,” declared Mr. Bernstein, and his gold teeth added their tribute. “I can see we are going to get along fine. Ha, ha, ha! What about a short one on me, everybody, as I’ve had two on the house.”
“No, no,” Destrée laid a tiny ivory hand on his sleeve. “You are my guest, Mr. Bernstein — but sometimes I go out to lunch and even to dinner.”
“That’s a bet.” Once more the small notebook appeared. “Let’s make a date, now. What about Friday?”
“Alas.” She shook her head, looking up at him. “All this week I am so popular that my luncheons and dinners are provided.”
“Next Monday, then. The Berkeley at one ack emma. Leave the wine to me.”
“That is very nice of you, Mr. Bernstein. I shall be most happy.”
“I’ll see you’re happy.” The notebook disappeared. “And now what about a spot of gambling?”
“But, of course,” cried Destrée, throwing open the door behind her. “By all means let us gamble. To-day in this dull London, what else is there to do?”
16
The Ivory Ball
The gambling room was a long, rectangular apartment across one end of which a roulette table extended. The remainder of the room contained card tables, armchairs and settees; it was softly carpeted and dimly lighted, since most of the light had been concentrated on the roulette table. A few pictures lurked on shadowy walls, and in contrast to the Madonna of the lobby, these appeared to consist largely of modernistic nudes. Some fourteen people, men and women, were seated or standing around the roulette table when Destrée entered with her new guests.
To one familiar with Monte Carlo it would have appeared, at first sight, noting its circular pit in the centre to accommodate a regulation wheel, that this table had been constructed for roulette. It was of similar size to those used in the Casino, covered with green baize, marked out in the usual way. Croupiers faced one another on either side of the wheel, stacks of colored stakes ranged neatly before them, and two others officiated, one at either end of the table. Play was not particularly high at the moment, but counters were marked in sterling values and not in francs; so that Mr. Bernstein, peering over the bare shoulder of a stout and elderly lady who watched the wheel through raised lorgnettes, saw that the highest single stake exposed represented about five pounds.
He waited for the ball to fall and listened to the monotonous intonation of the croupier: “Trente-deux, rouge, pair et passe.”
Remorseless rakes swept stakes away, those of a few lucky ones remaining to be paid out. Mr. Bernstein, glancing aside for a moment, noted a billiard marking-board with cues in a rack, attached to a wall behind the first croupier. He turned to look for Destrée; but Destrée had disappeared.
Mr. Michaelis was obligingly cashing twenty pounds into one pound and ten shilling counters for Captain Fyne. Teddie Olivar had taken an unoccupied chair next to a titled lady whose beauty had created considerable stir at Court during the later years of Edward the Seventh. An addict, banished from Monte Carlo, she was prepared to risk a scandal which might tarnish her ancient name rather than to forego that feverish excitement which can be born in the human breast by the antics of a little ivory ball.
Peter Fyne was the only officer present, or the only officer in uniform. Except for one rather pretty girl who seemed to be a novice, and who was receiving loving instruction in the intricacies of roulette from her companion, a short, lean City magnate, with a long, stout purse, the players were middle-aged to elderly.
Left to his own devices, Mr. Bernstein evidently determined upon a line of conduct. He produced his fat wallet. The slightly amused voice of Mr. Francis spoke almost at his elbow.
“As I believe you have not played here before, Mr. Bernstein, the chips are valued from half-a-crown to ten pounds, and fifty pounds is the maximum on the even chances. What would you like to start with?”
“Here’s twenty quid,” said Mr. Bernstein. “Lay it out for me like this: ten one pounders; ten ten bobs; ten five bobs; and the rest in half dollars.”
“With pleasure.” Mr. Francis handed the money to one of the croupiers dealing in cash and indicated to Mr. Bernstein that he should dispose of several mounds of chips delivered, in suitable pockets, or elsewhere.
“Messieurs! faites vos jeux!”
The game went on ...
In that dimly lighted room where miniature lily pools stood upon lacquered tables and waxen blooms loaded the air with their heady fragrance, Destrée lolled on her divan. She smoked a cigarette fitted into the little jewelled holder, and her lips were parted in that enigmatic smile. No echo of the play reached this room. Its silence was almost stupefying; indeed, it was disturbed once by a sound resembling the fluttering of a butterfly, but actually occasioned by a petal falling from a lily onto the lacquered surface beneath. At last, however, a faint tap sounded upon the door. The tinkling voice of Destrée spoke the one word: “Enter.”
Mr. Michaelis came in, closing the door behind him. He crossed noiselessly, his footsteps deadened by the Chinese carpet, and stood for a moment looking down at her. She watched him with those sleepy eyes in whic
h no message could be read.
“I am not sure that I am glad,” he began, “that Olivar should bring his friend Bernstein.”
She dimpled her satin shoulders. “What does it matter so long as he plays. Is he playing?”
“Yes.” Mr. Michaelis, who was smoking a cigar, contemplated the cone for a moment, thoughtfully. “I saw Francis cash twenty pounds for him. But it is not always good policy to think only of the money. Your parties have been justly celebrated for a certain bon ton. It would be regrettable if vulgarity should be permitted to intrude.”
“My dear Hugo — Teddie, who is so beautiful but so brainless, has his uses all the same; and his demands are not high. He brought us Poppy Huskin. Even you will admit that she was welcome. Others, too. He brought Mr. Bernstein at my own request. Our wine bill is excessive. Mr. Bernstein is said to be more — considerate.” Destrée closed her eyes entirely, or seemed to do so.
Mr. Michaelis contemplated his cigar again. “You admit that Olivar is brainless. This fact has its advantages — but it may prove destructive.”
“You cannot possibly have forgotten,” murmured Destrée, “that Giles had taken the bank with him on the night that he came to an end so regrettable.”
“I have not forgotten,” said Michaelis quietly.
“Our — official resources are by no means unlimited.” She dropped the cigarette into a little jade bowl. “And so” — she moved her shoulders again— “we must economise as best we can. The loss of so much capital is serious.”
“But I pointed out to you at the time, when the arrangement was made, Ysolde, that a man who obeys two masters is the servant of neither.”
“Precisely what do you mean, Hugo?”
“Well, I mean that what I may describe as our common fund should have been employed for the game. Loeder, in accepting a portion of the financial responsibility, admittedly was a welcome partner, at the time, as our resources were somewhat depleted. But in proposing himself as a backer, he was no doubt thinking primarily of his own profit.”
